


Swan Song

by newmrsdewinter



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Gift Fic, Grief/Mourning, Invisible Kingdom | Revelation Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmrsdewinter/pseuds/newmrsdewinter
Summary: Kamui and Ryoma mourn a friend and forge a new promise together.Written for the Enablers Secret Santa 2019
Relationships: My Unit | Kamui | Corrin/Ryoma
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17
Collections: Enabler's Gift Exchange





	Swan Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AcquaSole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole/gifts).



> This is my secret santa fic for Acquasole! You asked for awkwardness, and I turned awkwardness into something sad. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Prompt: The pairing is Kamui/Ryoma. It’s awkward and they're trying to find what to say to each other. It’s night out and they're trying to avoid a party. There's a beautiful lake full of birds like herons and swans and it makes the night look beautiful.

Scarlet is a scandalous color to wear at a funeral, but no one has ever accused Kamui of modesty. 

Her evening gown is one of Camilla’s old things, worn once to a masked ball and promptly relegated to the back of her wardrobe. Kamui spruces it up for the occasion, embroidering delicate white flowers upon the silk and glittering gemstones into the trim. She also pins a single pristine lotus blossom from Valla to her breast. It’s an appropriate gesture, she thinks. Fitting for Scarlet’s memory. Others could don black, hide their faces behind veils, or shave their heads, but Kamui is determined to attend Scarlet’s funeral looking like a hothouse flower, one as lively and vibrant as she was when she was alive.

In stark contrast, when Kamui meets Ryoma at Scarlet’s home village at the appointed hour, he is wearing a black mourning kimono: plain, simple, and unadorned. The moment he dismounts from his tenma, she squeals and rushes forward in a flounce of muslin. Startled, he catches her and tries to embrace her back, but his arms don’t quite make it around her shoulders. He’s too busy gawking at her dress.

“That doesn’t look very traditional,” he remarks by way of greeting. 

_It’s not very appropriate,_ is what Kamui hears instead. She steps away, but grasps both his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Scarlet wasn’t traditional at all,” she says, a little chastened by his tone. “She wouldn’t wear black to _my_ funeral.” 

“Let’s not talk about your funeral,” says Ryoma, grimacing slightly. Distracted, he turns his gaze to the empty clearing, searching for something that wasn’t there. “Where are your siblings?” 

Kamui presses her lips into a tight line and doesn’t answer him right away. In her excitement to see him again after so many weeks, it had completely slipped her mind that their reason for meeting was meant to be somber. She releases his hands as she leads him down the downtrodden path towards the village. It’s a tiny dark pinprick against the horizon, where a billowing plume of smoke rises from behind the palisade. 

Her eyes are fixed upon the horizon when she replies, “They decided not to come. I arrived earlier than I expected because I didn’t need to travel with a retinue. Just as well, too. Cheve might have considered it an act of aggression, seeing armed Nohrians storming the field for a funeral.”

That doesn't seem to be the answer he expects to hear. “Is there any other reason why they decided to stay in the capitol?” 

"Leo says they aren't welcome in Cheve, and he’s probably right.” She fiddles with the butterfly ornament in her hair. The more she touches it, the messier her hair becomes, but she needs an outlet for her restless hands. Ryoma is asking questions she’d rather not answer. “In fact, he didn’t want me to come either, but I wouldn’t hear of it.” 

“I could have made the trip by myself,” he says quietly. 

“Nonsense. Scarlet was my friend too. I want to be here.” 

Neither of them speak her name again after that. Kamui isn’t certain how to interpret the deep crease in his brow, but she has a vague feeling that invoking Scarlet’s name one more time could only end in disaster. As the minutes pass in silence, she realizes with mounting dismay that their final encounter with Scarlet’s reanimated corpse is the only thought preoccupying Ryoma’s mind. He’s thinking of the moment he was forced to turn his blade upon her; his hand grips the hilt of the Raijinto so tightly that his knuckles are stark white. 

“Did she have family?” Kamui asks. Her voice is hoarse. 

Ryoma’s is curt. “Only the knights in her company.” 

“No, I mean like blood relatives.” 

“Not anymore, no.” 

Kamui drops the subject when he doesn’t elaborate. Grief has an odd way of manifesting itself in his demeanor. The shadow and sunlight dappling against his face from the trees gives him a rather wild appearance. He walks with a stride that’s stiffer than a board, and there is a tightness in his jaw that makes him look slightly agitated. Had this been a happier occasion, she could have enjoyed this rare Nohrian twilight with him, with all its starburst swathes of amethyst, crimson, and primrose. The darkening sky is resplendent against the treeline of cedars and pines from the forest around them. This could have been a romantic moment, a beautiful one. 

Instead, her mind is bogged down by her siblings’ lukewarm reaction to their engagement. The ring that’s wrapped so snugly around her finger now feels cold, like a common gemstone devoid of all sentimental value. She had clung to it like a lifeline when she and Ryoma were separated across the deeprealms, but now that they’re together, walking side-by-side, there’s a chasm between them that’s deeper than the one leading to Valla. 

She adjusts the lotus blossom wilting at her breast as wanders into a dark and dangerous place. _Does he think I’m ridiculous? Childish? Does he have regrets? What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s only trying to humor me with his love?_

The real root of her fears leaps to the forefront of her mind the moment they’re in view of the village palisade. A horn bugles from atop a watchtower, and there’s a rumble of commotion coming from inside the gates. It sounds distinctly unfriendly. Her resolve immediately shatters. All the air is knocked out of her chest and her feet refuse to lift off the path. 

_My abduction splintered his entire family. My betrayal broke his heart. The very same day he decided to place his trust in me, he lost his closest confidant to the fiend I called my friend. Will he hate me forever?_

Ryoma comes to a halt and tenses. “Kamui,” he murmurs in an undertone, and she jolts to attention, instantly on guard. When the gate cracks open, a man emerges from the inside. Strapped loosely to his back is an intimidating greataxe that sways precariously with every step he takes. His gait is distinctly meandering. “Are you armed?” 

“My dragonstone and a couple daggers,” she whispers back. “Why?” 

“Just in case.” 

The stranger meets them halfway down the path before they can strategize further. Kamui breaths a quiet sigh of relief when he doesn't bat an eye at Ryoma's kimono or her evening gown, but to her immediate dismay, that’s only because he looks _outrageously_ drunk. He reeks of ale and sweat so pungent that she almost gags. 

“Hail, friends,” he greets, waving them over. He stumbles and must lean against a tree trunk for support, but he sounds surprisingly lucid. “Come for the celebration, have you?” 

“Celebration?” Kamui echoes, dumbfounded. “I — we were told — did we miss the funeral?” 

“Funeral? Can’t have a funeral without a body. Those damned royals didn’t bring anything back, so there’s nothing to burn.” He turns to Ryoma and tilts his head. “I’m the alderman. You’re that Ryoma guy from Hoshido, aren’t you?” 

Ryoma looks to Kamui for help. He had picked up a decent amount of Nohrian from Scarlet and Xander, but the alderman speaks in a brogue so thick that it’s difficult for Kamui to parse his words into something comprehensible. She translates as best she can. Ryoma nods and inclines his head. 

“I would like to extend my sincerest apologies for your loss,” he says stiffly. 

The alderman astonishes them both by bursting into a deep belly laugh, loud and raucous. He switches to Common and says, still chortling, “One of my boys told me the king of Hoshido was coming, but I thought he was too deep in his cups. You’re a real stick in the mud, aren’t you? That’s how Scar described you in her letters.” 

“Scar,” Ryoma says blankly. “Then you’re —” 

“Her second-in-command, aye,” he finishes somberly. “I held down the fort while she went for help in Hoshido…always does us good to know that our girl made some friends there. We owe you a real debt, that’s what.” 

Ryoma’s throat works. “There are no debts between friends. And she was a friend. The truest and bravest of them all.” 

The alderman tears up at this tribute. Sniffling, he claps Ryoma hard on the shoulder, causing him to flinch at the familiarity. “If you drink tonight, pour one out for our girl, won’t you? That’s what she’d like the most.” 

Apart from the initial translations, Kamui is silent throughout this entire exchange. She curtsies and introduces herself when prompted. She laughs when appropriate and nods at the right time as the alderman spins tales about Scarlet in her youth. But she doesn't say a word. If she opens her mouth, the truth might come spilling out like an omen: _I could have saved her. She died because of me. I don’t deserve your generosity._

As the sky darkens into dusk, torches cast an illusion of sunlight upon the cobblestone, so bright that Kamui must shield her eyes and squint when they enter the village proper. The commotion she had mistaken for a threat outside the gates is actually the noise of a party that hasn’t yet reached its climax.

The scent of smoke and meat skewers sizzling upon flame is the first to hit her senses. Jugglers on stilts toss wheels of fire and women dance madly in the streets, their voluminous skirts in spinning in perfect circles. Amid the crush of people surrounding the square, not a single person wears black. Everyone around her is laughing, smiling, aglow from lamplight and the merriment is contagious. Kamui can’t help the grin spreading upon her face. 

But when she glances to her left, Ryoma is slack-jawed. He wears the countenance of a man who has just been slapped in the face with culture shock. “This is a funeral, is it not? Why are people celebrating?” 

His questions go unanswered. “Nice night for it, isn’t it?” the alderman asks brightly. Villagers hail him cheerfully and wave. “If you brought tribute, leave it at her father’s house. And mind the flames. Couple of my boys lost eyebrows throwing their drinks into the damn thing.” 

It’s only then that Kamui notices the massive pyre burning at the center of the village square, but without a body, it’s only a bonfire. Around it, wooden tables are creak under massive weight of the feasts they carry: roast goose, freshly baked bread, steaming pot pies, massive tureens of stew, and most prominently, stacked casks of ale by the dozen. Her mouth waters, but she knows there are other more pressing matters to attend to first. 

“Which one is her father’s house?” she asks. 

He points in a vague direction. “You won’t miss it for the flowers. It’s got a red door.” 

They part ways. Kamui holds Ryoma’s hand as they weave through the labyrinth of people clogging the streets. His fingers are cold and sweaty, clasping hers tight enough to hurt. She says nothing. He’s paler than a sheet of paper, washed out by his black kimono. The alderman was right — all they had to do was follow the path of white flowers trampled upon the path before they found the right house. It’s open to mourners, though there are only a few stragglers around. 

“Her childhood home,” Ryoma murmurs, gazing at the humble little garden. “She once told me that whenever she thinks of home, she thinks of a house with a red door.” 

Kamui’s throat constricts. “Shall we go in?” she asks. 

Ryoma nods grimly. He maintains his death grip on her hand as they cross the threshold together. The parlor is cold, illuminated by a sea of candlelight surrounding a raised table, upon which rests an old suit of crimson armor. It’s Scarlet’s, though it surely wasn’t this pristine when she last wore it. Someone had polished it to a mirror-like sheen and all the dents had been beaten out of the plates. 

Tears spring to Kamui’s eyes. It’s a fitting tribute, but there’s nothing beautiful about it. She only sees the empty husk of a warrior once filled with vibrancy and light. Try as she might, Kamui can’t conjure a single memory of that light. All she sees is Scarlet’s head, lolling from her broken neck. Grossly animate. Her sunken yellowed eyes, desperately pleading for mercy. The cry of agony and relief when Ryoma plunges his sword into her chest. The grief is still so near that Kamui’s entire body shudders with emotion. Wiping her tears, she steals a glance at Ryoma. He stands at the head of the table with his arms hanging limply at his sides. 

“This is where her body would rest if we found it,” he says, his voice very quiet.

“Yes,” Kamui whispers. In here, it’s relatively silent; she can barely hear the merrymaking ringing from outside. “According to Leo, they would keep her here for a few days for the mourners to visit, then they would burn her at the pyre when the flames burn brightest.”

Without thinking, her fingers come to rest lightly upon the cold metal of Scarlet’s gauntlets. She snatches her hand away, but Ryoma doesn’t notice. He’s burning a candle and bowing his head in quiet prayer. Quietly, she takes out the gift she’d brought — a golden dagger encrusted with rubies — and drops it onto the table where the other gifts are gathered.

“Would you like a moment alone?” she asks him. 

His back is turned to her. “Yes, please, I would appreciate that.” 

Kamui nods, pressing her lips together, but she takes her leave. When Ryoma emerges from Scarlet’s house five minutes later, the heaviness has lifted from his shoulders, but the pained expression his face tells her that he’s not going to last much longer if he lingers another minute more for the festivities. Her suspicions are confirmed when he unexpectedly loses his footing on a stepping stone and nearly stumbles headfirst into a bush.

“I — I apologize, Kamui,” he says, gasping, seizing her arm for support. “I don’t know what came over myself.” 

He’s weary, she realizes to her own horror. Frightfully exhausted. The flight from Hoshido isn’t an easy one, and it doesn’t help his nerves that he’s traveling across the continent for a funeral. “Spend the night in Krakenburg,” she coaxes, holding him steady. “You don’t have to fly back to Shirasagi right away.” 

“No, no, it’s alright. I can manage —” 

But before they have the chance to slip away, the alderman catches up to them, panting heavily. “There you two are! Gods, you’re a slippery pair, aren’t you?” 

“Is something the matter?” Kamui asks, her spirits falling. 

“Couple of the knights in her company want some words if you can spare ‘em. Final words, what she was up to, and the like. And you’ll surely stay for the feast, won’t you?” 

Kamui isn’t sure, but to his credit, Ryoma steps forward with a smile, though it’s rather strained. “We’d be happy to oblige, alderman. Please lead the way.” 

As they’re walking back towards the village square, Kamui catches up to Ryoma and takes hold of his sleeve. “Are you sure?” she asks worriedly. “We can leave, if you’d like. If it’s too much —”

“It’s fine, Kamui,” he says, patting her hand, but she isn’t fooled by the weariness in his voice. “Only a few hours more and we’ll leave.” 

Despite her misgivings, Ryoma does seem to enjoy himself as the night wears on. He’s honored when he’s asked to lead the procession once Scarlet’s armor is finally brought to the pyre. He laughs at jokes and tells a few of his own when the toasts are made, and even braves a few bites of the questionable meat pie that Kamui avoids all night. 

But it comes as no surprise when, amid all the singing and dancing, Kamui finds herself alone in the midst of a rowdy, drunken crowd at the feasting table and Ryoma is nowhere in sight. 

“Have you seen my fiancée anywhere?” she asks the knight sitting next to her. 

“The king?” he replies thickly, his mouth stuffed of mutton. He swallows, then wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Went down to the lake, I think. Said he needed to be alone.” 

Kamui immediately excuses herself and rushes out of the square. She asks for directions but quickly finds that it’s a fruitless endeavour; all the revelers around her are too drunk to give her a straight answer. Eventually, she finds her way back into the woods, and her instincts lead her to the edge of a pristine lake whose water is a shifting mosaic of blues, greens, and wavering shadows from the firs and cedars. 

Ryoma sits where the moon is brightest among the ferns, upon a weathered bench worn down by time and age. Kamui approaches him quietly, so quietly that trickle of water is louder than her footfall upon the leaves. 

“Ryoma,” she calls softly. “Ryoma, may I sit with you?" 

He turns around, nods, but presses a finger to his lips. He points at the water. Puzzled, Kamui creeps closer, and her face lights up. Hidden among the reeds, there floats a nest where a mother swan fusses over her brood of downy cygnets. One by one, they hop off the nest and glide onto the water, and it isn’t until they’re all gone that Kamui steps off the path to join him on the bench. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, more absently than ever. “I though all of Nohr was a wasteland. Now I understand why she was so proud of Cheve, why she fought so passionately to protect this place. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

They sit in silence at the edge of the water, illuminated by the moon’s spectral glow. It cast thin ribbons of light across the lake, rippling against the breeze. Kamui shivers, but not from chill. The silence unsettles her deeply. She likes to fill the empty spaces around her with chatter because she can’t stand the quiet. Silence is loneliness. Loneliness is the tower where she spent every night of her miserable youth, yearning for a different life. One where she is loved by her friends and family. 

“It’s chilly tonight,” she remarks, and she might as well have been talking to the wind. 

His tone still carries that detached quality that frightens her. “Not quite as cold as Shirasagi. I thought I might freeze flying over the plains.” 

_Gods help us, we’re discussing the weather,_ Kamui thinks to herself, awash with horror. What could she do to bridge this gap between them? What could she say? Her internal panic intensifies when a dark cloud veils the moon for the briefest moment, bringing with it a scattering of raindrops. _Just like my life,_ she thinks gloomily. _Cold, empty, and withered like winter leaves._

Ryoma surprises her by breaking the silence first. “Why do they mourn that way?” he asks, and his eyes are wide and beseeching when he turns to her. “Laughing and smiling while her body is lost at the bottom of an abyss…it feels wrong. As though we’re dishonoring her memory.” 

“Well,” Kamui begins, and mentally takes stock of what she’s learned from Scarlet’s friends that evening. “It’s not wrong for you to feel that way, but there’s also nothing wrong with grieving through celebration. Don’t you feel closer to her, doing all the things she liked to do in life with the people she loved?” 

“I feel like a fraud, actually. Partaking all the things she loved but can’t enjoy.” 

Kamui hums in response. “They’re doing the same things you would do at a funeral in Hoshido: remembering, mourning, and honoring....it’s only the customs that are different, and that doesn’t make them wrong. This is the last day they can ever spend with her spirit, and they choose to do it with happiness. It might not be very dignified, but don’t you think it’s terribly brave?” 

Ryoma says nothing at first, but he touches her wrist and a thrill goes through her. His fingers are cold and the touch is chaste, but the gesture holds a world of meaning that Kamui knows he would have difficulty putting into words. “I believe that they are right, what they’re saying in the village,” he says softly. “That her spirit rests with the stars in the sky, shining her light down upon us…” 

“A new world that she gave her life to protect. She’d be happy, I think.” 

Ryoma laughs, but it comes out as an airy breath. “We say this, but we both know she’d scoff at such sentimental talk. When she was alive, Scarlet was a woman of fire and action.” 

“All action and no talk,” Kamui agrees wistfully, lost in the moment. Her attention is lost in the sea of stars being woven into the glittering heavens, and so she doesn’t notice the expression on Ryoma’s face when she says, “I wonder what she’d be doing right now if she were still alive.” 

“She’d force me take a leap of faith,” he replies. “Push me right off the edge of a cliff.” 

“A leap of faith?” Kamui asks. Something low in his tone makes her heart beat wildly. “Like what?” 

She lifts her eyes and her cheeks flush with a vengeance when he cups her face with his hand and brushes his lips against hers. A thousand questions flood her mind, but she answers his kiss with a deeper one, melting into his arms to diminish the space between them. 

But everything changes in one quicksilver moment. He goes abruptly still and his back tenses. Something wet drips down her neck, and when Kamui opens her eyes, it’s not raining anymore. 

“Oh,” she breathes. Her arms wrap instinctively around his shoulders and her fingers card through his hair. She can feel the incredible strength of his body as he draws a breath so deep that he shudders and she tremors with him. “Oh, Ryoma…” 

He sheds all the tears of a man who likely hasn’t allowed himself to cry in years. Once finished, he hiccups slightly and murmurs hoarsely, “I’m sorry. I was a boor to you today. A complete and utter boor. All day, in fact. You were so excited to see me again, and yet I brushed you off and made that awful comment about your dress…” 

“Hush,” says Kamui, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “All is forgiven.” 

His fingers play with the lotus petals at her breast. “Have I mentioned that it’s a beautiful dress? A ravishing one? You look lovely in red. It suits you well.”

She beams at him, poking his haori playfully. “Black is _not_ your color. And you’re mourning, Ryoma. Mourning without closure. Without her body, it feels as though she’ll waltz back into our lives at any moment…” 

“Mourning, yes,” he agrees. “Also blind and uncaring to your feelings and her wishes as well. She wouldn’t want either of us to drown in guilt over her passing. I promise to be better than that in the future, Kamui. I swear it.” 

Life, which had seemed so dull and gray and hopeless just a few moments before, now takes on a rosy radiance. For the first time in weeks, Kamui beams with the inward glow of love shining through her. Ryoma’s breathing has finally calmed, and he trusts her enough to break down before her…her heart aches for him, but inwardly, she rejoices. 

They return to the village in time for the pyre to be extinguished. With only the starlight to navigate their course back to Krakenburg, Ryoma’s promise burns brightly in her heart, as bright as Scarlet’s memory when she was alive. The night is cold and the next chapter of her life is a frighteningly blank slate, but when he clasps her hand, her heart sings, warmed by the prospect of a future with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by an Irish wake for Scarlet's funeral, but tweaked the more traditional customs to suit the setting.


End file.
